


Waiting Game

by neverminetohold



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Secret Relationship, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was widely known in Hobbiton that adventures were dangerous, nasty business all around, making you late for dinner and miss the comforts of home. This was no secret to Bilbo Baggins. Too bad he didn't care one whit...</p><p>OR: The one were scarring Lobelia Sackville-Baggins for life does barely warrant a side note...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



The huntsman moved with care, mindful of rotting leaves and ragged stones.

Following fresh squirrel tracks through rough terrain, his gnarled hands brushed low hanging branches aside that scraped over his oilskin coat. Crouching down by a snare, he was not surprised to find the noose limp and empty.

The forest surrounding him lay silent but for the wind. Never did it bode well, the absence of twittering birds and rustling of small predators in the underbrush.

He looked up towards the overcast sky, eyes shaded by his hood, wincing when his spine stretched beyond what his old bones were comfortable with. The dark clouds promised rain, while their yellow taint around the peaks of the Misty Mountains spoke of thunderstorms.

He was about to turn back along the trail, keen to reach the comfort of his humble abode, when he saw them: dark shapes, thirteen by his count, daring the crumbling ridge.

“Foolhardy folk,” he muttered, spitting out a mouthful of chewed weeds. “Traveling in this weather.”

XXX

Bilbo braved the treacherous path with all the grace of a barnacle, clinging to the mountainside, uncaring that his palms and fingertips got scratched. He was far more concerned with the yawning abyss to his right.

His stomach fluttered as he chanced a glance beyond the tips of his toes. Roiling mist was all there was to see, a swirling gray no different from the sky. Here and there the tops of trees poked through, but all details were lost in the distance.

Another day with no chance for a private moment...

“Bilbo.” Fíli tugged at his waistcoat, just enough to pull the wine-red fabric taut. “Don't take root there.”

“Sorry.” He moved on as quickly as he dared, gaze now fixed on fissured granite and Kíli's back, the curve of the bow he carried. “It's a breathtaking sight, is all.”

“Aye, it sure is,” Bofur shouted back with his usual cheer. He was farther up ahead the row of Dwarrows, yet easily spotted by the flaps of his hat. “One wrong move - “

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo interrupted somewhat sourly. “And you end up as a pancake. Thank you for another lovely mental image.”

Kíli sniggered. “It could be worse, you know. At least there is no rain.”

As if right on cue, the flash of lightning snaked across the darkening sky. Thunder followed, its echo caught between the peaks to reach a furious crescendo, and then the first drop landed right on Bilbo's nose.

There was a chorus of colorful curses and a long suffering sigh from Balin. Ori, sensible lad that he was, reached into his pocket and donned a woolen bobble cap. - Granted, it would be soaked through within seconds, but being dressed for every occasion was very important (or so Dori claimed).

XXX

Bilbo had been known as an adventurous Hobbit throughout his youth, more Took than Baggins.

Always he had run off after breakfast, to see the far side of one more rolling hill or to search the near woods for Elves, to play pranks with his cousins, and steal Farmer Maggot's mushrooms, ever challenging the borders of his small world.

He came home with scraped knees and stubbed toes, lips blue from wild berries and clothes torn, beaming with happiness. Belladonna would smile and gracefully accept gifts of flowers and snail shells, while Bungo pretended to very strongly disapprove, if only for proprieties sake.

Respectability, as Hobbits cherished it, had been something Bilbo had been forced to grow into after the loss of his parents. And with the passing of years he became, perhaps, a tad too comfortable and settled in his new role.

Then, Yavanna be blessed, he had met someone, a wandering blacksmith, and what followed after need not be told, for it is the oldest tale of them all.

… though certainly, tumbling out of a haystack, stark naked and lips swollen, right before Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' feet that she screamed bloody murder, lent it a new flourish.

XXX

“ _Who - ? Thorin?! It is truly you! I - “_

“ _I do not have much time.”_

“ _Wha- Oh yes, please come in. You and all that mud.”_

“ _Bilbo - “_

“ _What? You vanish without warning, show up 15 years later at an ungodly hour, and expect a warm welcome?”_

“ _I am here now, true to my word. The time has come.”_

“ _For what? - Thorin, what are you doing?”_

“ _I will soon go on a journey to Erebor, to reclaim my birthright – and I want you at my side, before the eyes of all my kin, if you are still willing.”_

“ _I seem to remember you talking about a dragon.”_

“ _Bilbo...”_

“ _Oh, don't be silly! Thorin, would you just stand up and kiss me already?!”_

XXX

Bilbo was frustrated and tried to counter his foul mood with meditative thoughts of Bag End. He pictured his comfortable armchair, old tomes stacked everywhere, the round window and well-kept garden beyond.

It was the thing to do to try and get a grip, - not that it helped. What else could he think about to distract himself?

Well, he had just spent hours wading through mud that rose to his knees, while the heavens emptied themselves on his head. Worse, he had done so surrounded by Dwarrows wearing _boots_. Horrible contraptions, those, made mostly from iron and leather, which meant that every step taken had sounded like the squeak of tortured mice.

Now _that_ had done interesting things to his blood pressure, rivaled only by encounters with Trolls, Orcs and Goblins... or those of Thorin in various states of undress...

No, no. I was thinking about... ah adventures.

Yes, so Gandalf had been right about those. Near death experiences sure made one feel more alive than tracing a finger over maps and books, following roads and sentences, the danger only as real as ones imagination could paint it.

Not that Bilbo would want to miss this one for the world. Granted, he could have done without meddling wizards, Azog, the prospect of stealing from a dragon hoard - and curious nephews prone to showing up at the most inopportune moments...

Oh, all right! Distracting himself wasn't working out. Obviously.

“Mad Baggins,” Bilbo muttered into the last spoonful of his stew. He squared his shoulders resolutely. “I just have to hang in there.”

Bilbo leaned against Thorin's shoulder, feeling the tickle of fur along his cheek and the rhythmic movement as the whetstone went back and forth. He doubted that Orcrist needed the extra care, but he understood the benefits of keeping ones hands occupied.

Bilbo himself was holding onto his now empty bowl with an iron grip, lest he grab Thorin and topple him into the grass – where he would land right on top of a snoring Bombur. R-i-g-h-t.

“Bilbo.”

“Hmm?” He felt the tips of his ears burn, but managed a look of innocence, despite his less than pure thoughts. “Yes, Thorin?”

“I trust Dwalin with my life.”

“Then I suppose he would be willing to keep our little secret?”

“Aye.”

“Wake him.”

XXX

Dwalin grunted, rubbing his tender ribs and shaking his head in bewilderment, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Thorin and Bilbo... that they were... had been for years... well...

As if to illustrate the thoughts his mind stuttered to think through, leaves and twigs began rustling behind him. Small creatures skittered away, scared off by frantic movements, stifled moans and endearments whispered in Khuzdul.

Thorin certainly sounded... enthusiastic. And utterly besotted.

Dwalin scowled even harder, but there was no way to glare ones own blood into submission when it decided to rise up in a fierce blush. And then he paled, certain implications sinking in: Bilbo Baggins as King Consort...

“Dear Mahal help us all.”


End file.
